Surreality
by Anastasoula
Summary: This was never meant to happen. But in the Realm of Maybe Anything is Possible, it can? But it happened. And it splattered all over the floor. Someone clean up the blood and guts, I'm not gonna. Suna SI/OC. Kinda weird, honestly.


Hokuto - north star

* * *

A sun far away tilts across a wobbly horizon, rising over hilly silhouettes and mountains of gently sloping sand. The wretched fire of the star chases away the soothing coolness of the night, and animals of the busy type crack their crusty eyes open, and pulled wide their frightening maws to yawn, just to yawn. At the sunrise yet started, at the moonset yet done, at the brief stillness of another exhausting day yet to go on, go on, go on. But these animals are just little ones, no more frightening than kittens in comparison to the sheathed beasts galloping and running and sliding across sand toward the little animals. And why should they bother, if these little animals are so unimportant? Why, they got something the beasts want, don't they. They got unwanted young ones. Unwanted young ones to mold and push and pull into more little beasts, to keep the big beasts alive. That's all these unwanted young ones are good for, after all.

But what is a sheathed beast, anyway? A hidden threat of destruction with every step, every slide, every twitch and second they blink in the presence of the weaker. Is it physical strength, the possibility of death? Or can it be mental strength, the knowledge of the possibility of death?

And those little, unwanted, no-good young ones. They know. They know. They've known since they'd been set in a bundle, sometimes rags, sometimes in nothing but mother blood and guts, on that step of the house. The house for unwanted young ones. Oh, they know. They've been told, and they've even been brought up wanting it. Craving it. Needing it. And they do need it. It is the only way they will ever matter to anybody. And more importantly, it is the only way they will ever get out.

Those unwanted young ones, those little animals, those sheathed beasts and little beasts and big beasts. They're fools.

And one abandoned (but not unwanted. Why, there's a fool paying up another slightly smarter fool every other minute, because they think the smarter fool knows something beyond the now, that no one else ever can know. For a few cents each, thank you.) little girl has her mouth in a hard line, her face set serious, her eyes hooded and cold and "far too smart for her age, it's unnatural, it is". Because she knows, she knows more than anyone else can just how much these beasts want them, want her. To them they are yet nothing but trash to be thrown away the moment it loses its little monetary value for recycling. But her. She is both the diamond in the rough and the crowned savior of their land and their people. Or maybe that's just a stupid over exaggeration made by a stupid little prodigy orphan ninja girl, nothing to see here, move on folks. But she knows who the savior will be, and sometimes she smiles secretly when the sky turns a certain shade of blue or the light catches in the hair of one of the blond orphan boys.

It is not her. It can never be her. It was never meant to be.

In the early dawn's break, the little group of unwanted young ones huddle close to each other, whispering and wondering with wide eyes, clutching their worn canvas sacks of their material value. But it's not the same as the last picking, because this year the eyes are a little smarter, a little more dulled to the shine of a hitai-ate. They are no less excited than the last pickings, or are they? The sheathed beasts don't care. They smile infiltrator's smiles, and murderer-in-training ninja babysitter smiles, and paycheck smiles, and the little group is off. But not without a hitch. Because as they start to leave the group of unwanted young animals do not move a single muscle except to peer at the little abandoned girl, for guidance, for strength, for assurance. She is in the middle of the group, head held high, and dress ripped until it became a shirt, and was replaced by pants instead. She looks at the little ninja boys ahead of her, barely fifteen and twelve years old in their confidence of strength, and she licks her dry lips and asks -

"Where're we goin'?" Her accent is a little strange, they think. But her life had been picked over clean before they even started to think about taking her along into their home village. Nothing but the daughter of a pretty desert whore and a comrade of their army. Not an infiltrator, no way, they had been smart about it.

The oldest of the boys, with the special vest smiles condescendingly, "I just told you where we're going, we're gonna go to Sunagakure no Sato."

She looks steadily on, eyes narrowed in a naturally hooded way, like she's condescending to you right back, and she doesn't even have to try. "And what're we gonna do once we reach Suna?"

The little eyes in the heads of the slightly starved-looking orphan kids bounced back and forth between the two, and all eyes reach toward the boy with the answers, waiting, but just watching. One of the more morally-conscious boys on their team starts to feel the little hairs rise on the back of his slightly damp neck.

"I just told you. You ain't listening? We're going to escort you to Suna, and then you kids are gonna train to become ninja like we are, with forehead protectors and all." And the eyes of the little sheep bounce back to the girl.

"And what if we don't wanna go and train to become ninja? What if we don't wanna go to Suna?" The boy took one second to comprehend and laughed, head tilted slightly back in his mirth.

"Well, it seemed to me like your whole little group seemed pretty excited at the offer. And I don't think all of 'em are going to stay with you just because you're too scared to leave. Well, go on then, if you don't wanna come. You don't seem to be made up to be a ninja, anyways." His teammates join the little pairs of eyes as the group, in one whole motion, settles their collective gaze on the girl. And the boy who speaks jumps a little at the flash of a smile, a flash of emotion in those cold eyes, a flash of killing intent felt only briefly on the ninja present to take all the orphan children away.

"Not ninja material, eh?" The little girls whispers, smiling a small pleased secret smile, and then hardens again, "An' what makes you think "my" group ain't gonna stay if I told 'em to? What makes you think they gonna abandon me, when they known me 'fore I was even speakin', an' they known me 'fore they were even visible in my eyes? Well, they don't know for sure you ain't lyin' to 'em, and they know for sure I ain't lyin' to them if they don't think about if it was for their own good. But I never said I was gonna stay here, mister ninja. I was just askin' 'bout what I wanted to ask. That's all."

Silence rang across the patch of hardened sand that made the front of the orphanage, and little animals scurried to cover their giggling mouths behind their hands, content in the little girl's victory against the little beast that they felt represented what they had resented about beasts for so long. Under all the propaganda. The fifteen year old chuunin felt his ears reddin a tinge, and his stomach flutter in that way it does when he knows he's been tricked in a maneuver by sensei when his team trains to fight death. He doesn't like the feeling. He could kill the girl right here, flick of his wrist and a knife to the head. Crush of his heel and her neck snaps like a plank of wood. But he's getting paid by the kid, and damn if one of the shinobi rules he'd obsessed over and over about wasn't "keep your cool above all, show no emotion". And he moved his fingers mentally in the handsigns frontwards and backwards, jutsu order backward and forward. He would not let the little bitch-brat humiliate him.

"Alright," he said then, and his teammates and the girl released the tension in their shoulders as he mentally reached a calmer spot, "Alright, then if you ain't staying, don't hold the whole group back." And the children watched the little girl blink, the little girl shrug and take a step forward, then another, until the whole group of children were finally taking steps forward in the sand. The matron woman waved sadly at them, as she mentally counted over her profit from the unwanted young ones. Subordinate nurses ran a sigh of relief as the creepy menace of the strange girl finally diffused about the local atmosphere, and the littlest unwanted young ones did not start to fuss and cry. Because they did not realize they had then lost forever whatever path the little girl with the old eyes could have led them on, toward slightly higher survival rates. Because they could not realize that they lost forever whatever kind of contact that could have been established with the girl with the old eyes, the soul with too much Yin to be normal. They could not realize that they had lost whatever contact they ever could have had with a world beyond their own, and a future beyond their own.

Some time later, a ragged girl with far too much soul burdening her takes in the sights of Suna with an unimpressed look, and slates herself to no longer be one who cannot realize. To no longer be helpless. To no longer be ignorant. The girl walks away from the unwanted academy children, no longer content to lead them, and they let her. Because as she taught them, there is nothing they can do. There is nothing they can do, and they let her walk away, because she can do something. And they will watch her, for a time. Until the lessons of the past fade, and the interests fade, and the curiosity or the care or the kinship fades, until there is only admiration for the pointy part of a kunai and a couple parts on another animal's body.

She has never wanted to be one of them, anyway. They understand.

* * *

It was all over in a great big whoosh. A burst of utter euphoria (is this heaven? No, please please no, God does not exist. Please, no.), and then nothing.

She did not expect for the rather anti climactic moment of her death to be taken up instead by the movement of something like the creek of scales. A feather on one side, her soul on the other. The Great Mediator bounces the scales boredly, messing up the measurements as the soul and the feather frantically try to out-balance each other, and -

What? Said the Great Mediator. You thought you'd get your soul measured? Weighed and compared with a tape measure, a feather, or hell, even a friggin' rock, for sakes! Haha! That's funny. Humans are real funny. Yeah, kid, this is all one big joke, I hope you know. Death is a joke. Life is a joke. The soul's a joke. Hell, you don't even got any soul! No soul! Ha! Well, even if you did, even if any being in the universe that happened to be lucky enough to be self-aware and "Intelligent" and all that crap got a soul, it ain't got to be measured. What's it got to be measured for? A nice fancy suit? A pretty dress? Some shoes? Ha! No. Souls ain't got to be measured. They can't be measured anyhow, anyway. They don't even exist. Ha! Only the universe exists, kid. Yup, only the great big expanding universe, and that which came before it, and that which came before that, and that which sits beside it and in front of it and under it. That which is between it. What is the universe? Hell, even the universe don't even exist, kid. You don't exist, I don't exist. What's that one rule, of that psychics…. physics thingy? Thermodynamicular… Thermo-whatever the heck. Maybe even Common Sense. Hell, I don't know what your silly science thingymabobs even matter! Anyway, that thermo-thingy, says that something can't come from nothing… Nothing comes from nothing… Well, they're right! There's one mystery solved, nothing exists! It can't! I can't exist, you can't exist, nothing! Ha! And speaking of souls why the hell'd you wanna compare a soul to some mangy bird-thingy feather, anyhow?

I, I d-didn't…

Looks pretty stupid now that I've seen it a million, gazillion, ad infinitum times. Why not use a goddamn cloud, for all it's worth? Some pretty water molecules make you feel any lighter? What about a crocodile? What about a deep-dish pizza? Huh? Why you gotta be challenging the feather, huh? Why? You stupid? Souls don't exist, the universe don't exist, you and I don't exist…

Will you just stop for a second AND LET THE SCALE DO ITS JOB? Please!

Well…

Wha-

Huh… Well, lookit that, I ain't never seen that before. Oh, yeah, I have… it's those… forehead protector things from your first weeaboo trash experience ever…

How the hell do you know what the means-

And here the Great Mediator drew himself up in his black-as-void robes, his skeleton hands, his razor sharp scythe, and boomed great, knowing laughter. Slightly mad laughter. Slightly wise laughter. Mostly creepy, fifteen year-old girl laughter.

Silly, I'm you. Just messing with your head. Too easily riled up. And…

Hm…

The scale tilts in favor of the not-soul, the inscribed metal band and cloth risen ever so slightly.

The non-existent soul is actually heavier than the fucking piece of metal and cloth. Wonder if keeping the feather might've done you more harm than good by now…

Does this mean I'm going to… wherever place this non-existent scale indicates with it's measurements? A sunless wasteland, maybe? A bright sandy beach with-

Ah… not exactly, no… Actually, I have no idea where you're going, but you're going somewhere. Pretty sure you humans got some myth about being sent to hell when your soul's heavier than the feather? The criteria ain't the same, so…

Skeleton stared at girl. Girl stared at skeleton. The skeleton smiled as the girl smiled, and they smiled at each other.

Hope I won't have to see your face for a long time.

You're me! I'm you! And… never mind. Wouldn't want to be a skeleton… Or, no, wait, I take that back! Please let me be an awesome skeleton creeping dead people out and judging non-existent souls for no reason to places unknown! That sounds so much cooler than dying again!

Ha! Too bad! Maybe when you get reborn in skeleton-land… and, really, the birth thing out of a skeleton is really not something you want to experience twice.

Well…

And anyway, it's not like I'm going to exist after you leave this place afterwards… I never did in the first place, anyway. Neither did you. We both don't exist together.

Girl stared at skeleton. Skeleton stared at girl.

So I guess this is all supposed to allude to the fact that we are our own Great Mediator?

Not really, but I suppose you could take it that way if you had English classes you need to write philosophical essays about death for…

… but you probably won't need to anymore.

As the girl lost her form and became one with the eternal reality that all the Realms of Existence were made of, the Great Mediator became as quiet as a legally dead and buried corpse. It did not speak, did not laugh, did not reminisce or replay the scenes of the previous half-substantial-amount-of-time it had just spent with a poor lonely girl who had literally just died and literally lost everything. It had nothing to remember after all, as it did not exist. Not really.

It patiently waited for the next poor dead thing to arrive, as Governing Beings Living (or Not) Outside the Realm of Time and Space often do when they do not exist, and dead things do not exist, and time does not exist, and Maybe Anything Was Possible.

Realms away, an egg is fertilized with the chromosomes to create a fetus of the female sex within the womb of a rather pretty desert whore, and a dead girl's existence (not a soul) tags along for the ride. It waits its growing out and testing its boundaries inside the suddenly chakra-saturated world, and it takes its time getting used to exercising an entire new set of circulatory system and senses in its brain. Reaching out, out, out, until it can't take any more and it forces itself out. The pretty desert whore dies bleeding on the step of an ugly desert orphanage (to go on and meet the Great Mediator, herself, halfway), and a babe waits cold with nothing but mother blood and birth to carry on its back. It chokes and coughs a little, but does not cry or scream. It can see, it can SEE. It can FEEL and MOVE and THINK. It is NOT DEAD. It-

The matron woman screams high in the cool desert night at what she finds. She does not stop screaming until three years later, when she sees the turned back of the abandoned killer babe amongst all the other unwanted young ones off to see their premature deaths, and the whole village breaths a big huge sigh of relief.

* * *

Somewhere else, another village, albeit bigger and more dangerous, keeps screaming and screaming and screaming at the little young one with a great demon under his skin. He does not understand like the little abandoned girl does. Not like the little unwanted young ones do. He will just scream why back until he finally gets an answer. And when he does, it will not be pretty.

For them, at least. And as for her?

* * *

A/N:

Plainly put, I have no frigging idea what the heck this is, or why I'm posting it. Dunno why the heck the whole "meets death" thing was so confusing I'm just kinda tired. Yes the little girl's name is Hokuto. Obviously she was not named by the matron who found her. If the matron did, she'd probably be named something unlucky anyway.

Cover art is a shitty (actually no, it's kind of cool, but since I didn't draw it and it's a dress up thing, it's shitty) dress-up anime thing. Not mine. If you look closely, you can see who did, and make your own. This is my design for Hokuto. Flower is supposed to be a cactus flower, or something. Meh.


End file.
